


"Should we hang up a sheet?"

by nemo_r



Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemo_r/pseuds/nemo_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The warehouse is just another prison, but Fox River wasn't all bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Should we hang up a sheet?"

“Thinking about getting out of here?”

Sucre looks away from the photograph and, sighing, slides it back under the pillow. “Aren't we all?” He straightens, unfolding from the bunk to stand in front of Michael.

“No digging this time.”

“My back's not complaining.” They trade smiles.

Michael turns, looks out over the stair railing. “It's not so different, is it?” And Sucre can see it too, familiar concrete and metal, their cell superimposed over the bunks. He shrugs. “There are some perks. I have the bunk all to myself.” And the humour got lost somewhere in that sentence. He jerks his eyes away as Michael turns back.

There's a silent pause and the longer it lasts, the more Sucre feels like he's freezing up, muscles slowly turning to stone where he stands.

"Should we hang up a sheet?"

There are dimples etched into Michael's left cheek, and Sucre is startled into a laugh. "Not sure what Sara would say to that, Papi."

"She'd understand." Michael shrugs, his eyes mirror-blue, reflecting Sucre's expression back at him. The tension hasn't gone and he's not sure where to take this. He tilts his head to the side. Michael can read him, he knows his expressions are broad and open, not worth the effort it'd cost him to hide. And he's never known how to hide from Michael, not from the beginning - brushing past each other in the small space of the cell.

"She'd understand this?"

And Michael may be able to read minds, but Sucre needs it in the open. No half-way there maybes. Because he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss it. But things are always more complicated than they seem. And with Michael, that's a guarantee.

Still, Michael knows Sara better. Michael knows a lot of things. Sometimes Sucre thinks Michael knows him better. Knows what he wants and works out how to give it to him, places all the dominoes in order and Sucre just has to step up and let himself be knocked to the ground.

Michael raises an eyebrow “Would Mari-Cruz?” And Sucre doesn't want to think about that, doesn't want to think about the photograph under his pillow, the world waiting outside these concrete walls. It's that thought that pushes him to close the distance between them. Part of him sees that, sees that Michael chooses his words, but most of him just wants to let go, take what Michael's offering, no questions asked.

Michael smiles again, half way between dimples and a smirk, eyes darkening with something that looks like calculation, but Sucre recognises as lust and can't help a shiver as blood rushes through his veins.

Michael tilts his chin up, blue eyes again, and he's sure, so Sucre's sure. He rests his fingers on Michael's bare wrist, a shock of connection that he feels all the way up to his elbow. Slides his hand up over the cloth to Michael’s shoulder, curving his hand over Michael's collar to brush the edge of his thumb against his neck. He watches as those eyes lose focus, just for a moment, eyelids flickering shut. He did that, made Michael shake under his fingers. It sends thrill through him, and the illusion of control hovers on the edge of his mind.

He could give into it. Just like in prison – pretending it was his choice to push Michael down into the thin mattress of the bottom bunk. Uncovering the tattoo inch by inked inch. Trying and failing to hide his fascination, but it was okay, because Michael anticipated that, (he always anticipates) and he'd moan when Sucre followed the lines with his tongue.

But the tattoo's gone and this isn't Fox River. He blinks away the memories.

"Michael, I-" And then Michael’s hands are on his waist, fingers surprisingly cold, slipping under his shirt.

"I know." Michael turns his face in towards Sucre's and brushes dry lips against his. "I know."

And Michael does know him, looks out for him, and it's easy, so easy to let him kiss away the doubt. Opening up, tongue slipping between his lips, and he'd forgotten how good this was, the way he'd tease until Sucre was panting because remembering to breathe came secondary to chasing his taste back into Michael's mouth.

Now it's Sucre stumbling back into the bed. Feet tripping over Michael's and then he's pushed down before he hits his head, pressed into the covers. He catches his breath as Michael leaves his mouth and drops a kiss to the exposed dip of his collarbone, unexpectedly tender, before sliding further down his body. Soft hands skimming under his shirt.

Michael's touching him everywhere, memories mixing with the present and Sucre can smell Fox River - sweat and desperation. A mix that shouldn't be arousing except for the way it links back to Michael. Salt, sweat and dirt, the rough glide of fingertips across his back. Shadows and blue light, never silent nights. Muffling his moans in the pillow or against Michael's painted skin.

He reaches out above his head, hand curling around the cold metal of the bed frame and even that helps the illusion, bunk shaking under the both of them, (maybe he planned it that way.) But they're kissing again, the thought burning up under the heat of Michael's lips, the scrape of his stubble against Sucre's bare chest (and when did he lose his shirt?)

Then Michael's pulling at his zip, mouth dropping to press a kiss like a brand above his belt.

His reaches out clumsily. Fingers sliding under Michael's chin, turning his face up to look at him.

"Michael." He doesn't know what it is he's asking for, blinks slowly, distracted by sensation as he brushes his fingers over Michael's cheek, thumb slipping down over slick lips.

"Let me. Let me do this." Michael licks at the pad of his thumb, all his blue-eyed focus on him, just on him.

And Sucre doesn't have the words to say no.


End file.
